


Come Run Your Hands Through My Hair (Cause That's Why It's There)

by sweeterthankarma



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Fluff, Inspired by an Ariana Grande Song, Lesbian Noora Amalie Sætre, M/M, Marijuana, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Vacation, everyone is gay in the background because I said so, long-haired!Even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: “I love your hair,” Isak mutters, barely coherent but of course Even understands him. He’s using that mumble he uses when he’s really fucked up, usually a bit sleepy or horny or oftentimes both at once, and Even beams because he immediately recognizes where this conversation is going.
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93





	Come Run Your Hands Through My Hair (Cause That's Why It's There)

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration for this fic comes from the song "My Hair" by Ariana Grande. Also inspired by [Henrik with long hair](https://henrikholm-daily.tumblr.com/post/187393853387/henrik-via-fabjensn-on-instagram), because I mean, come on.

Isak is stoned out of his mind. Even is halfway to catching up.

The Madrid sun is hot outside of their window, streaming in through the barely drawn shade and warming the bed sheets, even at almost twenty hundred. It’s a good day, a good _week,_ the whole gang here during their brief break in university to visit Noora—and her relatives who never moved to Norway with her. Oh, and Isak can’t forget Noora’s new girlfriend, someone whose existence is immensely shocking to him yet not at all to Even. 

“I still can’t believe you knew and didn’t tell me,” Isak says for probably the fifth time in the past five minutes. Even couldn’t keep track, even if he tried, of all the times Isak has said it within the past few days. He thinks he should probably start running a tally, start charging him every time he brings her up. 

“I didn’t know, I just had an idea. A feeling.” 

Even’s face is pressed into the foot of the bed, mouth slightly open, and he watches Isak fumble with the baggie of edibles at the bedside table. He holds one up, as if considering, then gives Even a questioning look, hoping for better judgment from him. Even just shrugs.

“If you want to, baby,” he mumbles, “I trust you.” 

He breaks into a fit of giggles seconds later, just because he can, because he’s high and he’s in Spain with the love of his life and they’re gloriously, remarkably queer and almost all their friends are too— Noora, Eva, Vilde, Jonas, one of his old friends from Bakka who he’s not close enough with to remember his name right now when he only has about five brain cells doing all the heavy lifting for him.

Even’s happy. That’s the main takeaway here. 

And high. Really high. He has no idea where Jonas got these edibles, but Christ, they hit differently than the ones from home.

Even also hasn’t gotten high in a while. He's made an exception for today, for the mere occasion of being in Spain, not to mention at the perfect time for cherry blossom season. It had been Jonas’s idea that they all take a night off from sightseeing to rest, relax, and recuperate before beginning again tomorrow. Even will never admit it, but Isak knows he’s thankful for the down time. They’ve walked more than forty six consecutive miles in the past two days, and Eva had her Apple Watch on to prove it, marking each mile with a raucous cheer that Isak and Even could hear at every landmark, no matter how crowded or loud. And La Puerta del Sol was loud, especially at noontime in the middle of a weekend.

“I didn’t take it,” Isak says, and suddenly he’s on top of Even, rolling them over onto their sides. They’re dangerously close to the edge of the bed but Even reels Isak in, keeps him close, lets Isak move them back over. This time Isak’s the one to laugh, to bury his head into Even’s shoulder, grin so widely that Even can feel his teeth knock against the skin of his bicep, his faint stubble brush his sleeveless tank top. 

“I don’t need anything more, I’m already high whenever I'm with you.”

Even rolls his eyes. “You say this every time.”

“It’s true,” Isak replies. His cheeks are crimson from the heat and from his own honesty— it’s never embarrassment, not anymore, not with Even. “But I didn’t say that the first time we got high together. Or the second. Or even the third.”

“That’s because the weed was shit.”

“No,” Isak starts, but then seems to lose his train of thought. He noses along Even’s collarbone through the fabric of his shirt, raises his hands up to cradle Even’s head in his hands, then kisses him soft and quick before continuing his mission along Even’s chest. Even knows what he’s doing: to put it scientifically, trying to feel everything he possibly can while fucked up on god knows whatever they’ve just ingested. To put it simply, being cuddly. 

“I was being cool then,” Isak finally continues. “More composed. I knew I still had to impress you.”

“Hmm?” Even’s already sort of forgotten what they were talking about. He hears music outside, bachata blasting from someone’s car stereo, and it feels both miles away and right in this room. “You didn’t have to impress me.”

Isak’s hands come to rest on either side of Even’s neck, his lips a ghost against his Adam’s apple. “Sure I didn’t, but I wanted to.”

Even smiles. He feels the whole movement radiate through his whole body, change the way he holds onto Isak. “Of course you did. But you know you didn’t have to.”

Isak kisses his lips again, longer this time. “I know.”

“I already loved you,” Even tells him, and he means it so deeply it almost hurts. He looks into Isak’s eyes, sees the pinkish white of his high clouding the blue of his iris, and still, Even doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful.

“Me too,” Isak says back. “I love you now, too.”

Even laughs again. It tips him over, urges Isak onto his left side, his back towards the window, and when the sun flits over Isak’s shape, angles over him just right, Even almost gasps. Maybe he does, he’s not sure. He thinks to get his camera, or maybe just his phone, to capture Isak like this— more perfect than he’s ever seen him, though every day he just outdoes himself— and _yes,_ Even believes that, more than he’s ever believed anything, that Isak just gets more gorgeous every day, even though Isak will never believe him. Never let him say it without a gentle tip of his head, or maybe even a roll of his eyes or a scoff. He’ll never know it’s true.

Even doesn’t move, though. Instead he just drinks Isak in, tries to memorize everything about this moment, about this life, about this love. _His_ love.

“I love you now, too,” he says back when he can’t remember if he already did. “I love you always.”

From the way Isak’s lips quirk up, another soft giggle leaving his mouth— the kind that only Even ever gets to hear— Even figures he did.

“We should move here." 

“Okay,” Even replies, though he knows he’s full of shit. Isak was complaining about the language barrier from the moment they got here, not to mention the lack of Sørlandschips. It’s Isak’s favorite high food and he’s already checked both their bags for them, knowing damn well they had to eat them before they went through TSA at Gardermoen unless they wanted them to be confiscated.

“I love your hair,” Isak mutters, barely coherent but of course Even understands him. He’s using that mumble he uses when he’s _really_ fucked up, usually a bit sleepy or horny or oftentimes both at once, and Even beams because he immediately recognizes where this conversation is going.

“I know, baby,” he replies, his own hand fisting in Isak’s curls. They’re longer now, but not as long as his own hair, the lengthiest pieces more than halfway down his neck, almost curling at the base of his spine. Isak’s sang his praises for Even’s hair constantly in the past few months he’s grown it out, shown so much affection for it that Even doesn’t know if he’ll ever find it worthwhile to cut it, much less be allowed by Isak. It’s a lot to handle in the heat of summer, especially on days like today, but with Isak giving him that look, his fingertips threading through the darkest parts of the golden-blonde mess, right near his roots, almost scratching at his scalp.

“I love your hair,” Isak says again, more insistent this time, like he has something to prove to Even. “I love touching it, playing with it...”

Even nods, giving Isak his most attentive look. The room feels like it’s on a diagonal, but maybe that’s just Isak, who’s shifted to get the best position, the best possible angle to look down at Even. 

Well, really just his hair. His focus is laser-sharp, unwavering, impressive considering the circumstances.

“Are you trying to get me undressed with this talk, _min kjærlighet?_ Because you really don’t need to convince me, I’m right here.”

He lifts his hips at the same second Isak moves away, his aborted thrust coming away empty and unfulfilled. Isak gives him a scandalized look, eyebrows raised in satisfaction all the same.

“Can’t I just talk about how much I love your hair? Is that allowed?” 

“It is. Just thought you were going somewhere else with that tangent...”

“Maybe I was! Now you’ll never know, though, you ruined it for yourself.” Isak huffs, pulling his arms away from Even to cross them across his chest. Even smirks, then pouts, the two motions blending into one, and he watches Isak’s self-control dissipate, his meager mock-protest losing all momentum. They do this a lot, sober or inebriated— tease, play, start something just to end it and then rekindle it all over again moments later, or maybe even hours or days later. They know each other so well it sometimes scares Even, feels like true love in that even he—the hopeless romantic, the one who tried, and arguably succeeded in all the ways that counted, to be Romeo— couldn’t have imagined. There’s a rhythm they’ve got down pat, know as well as anything, and Even can’t ever imagine unlearning it or not loving it, not living for it.

Isak’s in his arms again, stroking his head almost like he’s a cat. Even has half a mind to start purring, but he isn’t quite sure his brain has the power to properly tell his throat what noise to try to make, and he’s not in favor of making Isak pull away again by busting his gut with laughter.

“I love running my hands through your hair,” Isak goes on again. 

“That’s why it’s there.”

Isak ceases his movement for just a second, arches his eyebrows at Even, and damn it, Even thinks, he might as well have tried to purr. It would have made for a pretty sound on Isak’s end, another pretty sight, giddy and chuckling in the sunlight.

“That’s actually not true, not scientifically. Your hair is needed to cushion your skull and to warm your body-”

“Okay, okay, Einstein. God. I was trying to be sexy.”

Isak grins. “You failed.”

“Oh really? Since when do I fail?”

“Today. Right now. First time ever.”

Even pretends to consider this. “Okay, not bad. I’ve made it about three years without any losses, I’d say that’s pretty good.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Isak’s fingers are back, resuming their strokes, more purposeful this time. Even lifts his hips again, and this time Isak notices. Feels it, reciprocates, moves right back, and the room gets a little more blurry, a little more bright.

“You think you can do any better?”

Isak is already victorious. “I know I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please let me know! Comments and kudos make my day.
> 
> Come say hi and talk to me about the Skamverse at my Tumblr blog [here](https://sweeterthankarma.tumblr.com/) or at my Twitter account [here!](https://twitter.com/sweeterthnkarma)


End file.
